


swaagg wyolo

by orphan_account



Series: The Changing Sky [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Consensual Violence, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’d punch yourself in the face if you hadn’t long ago accepted that you’re a disgusting excuse for a brother. You can live with it.</p>
<p>You just want that painted fucker in those lame, pricey suits to touch your dick, Jesus fuck.</p>
<p>And maybe tell you he loves you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No, seriously, what the fuck is this 'building background' shit?

**Author's Note:**

> alpha striders feeling each other up and dealing with brotherly angst because hey, look at all this lovely incest.
> 
> title was a suggestion by tumblr user [shingotsukino](http://shingotsukino.tumblr.com) that was too beautiful to pass up.
> 
> this is gonna be really short, meaning a few chapters at most, but it's just one part of an eventual series involving these two.

Your name is Dirk Strider and today is your nineteenth birthday. You’ve been staring at the ceiling of your tiny bedroom for approximately two hours now, and it’s almost nine in the morning. The sun has long since risen over the soaring apartment buildings, towering filth that interrupt your pristine view of a smoggy Texas sky. You know Dave is unironically hard gay for this fucking apartment, but you wouldn’t mind living somewhere with more of a view.

You’ve been sick of this shithole your whole life. You’re quite certain that if you were to raise this concern to Dave— _”Hey, Bro, this place is a mole on an Italian plumber’s sweaty, shit-coated ass. Let’s blow this joint.”_ —he’d just tell you to get a job and move yourself the fuck out.

And he wouldn’t be wrong.

You’ve been a leech for the last few years at least. You graduated high school early because you didn’t give a fuck about keeping pace with the idiots in your age group, and you made your way through two years’ worth of online classes at a community college with roughly zero effort in a seven month span, having obtained an associate’s degree in philosophy as an ironic gesture.

You can’t think of anyone better to contemplate the meaning of life than someone intelligent enough to recognize that there isn’t meaning, and that we’re all just maggots feasting on the rotting corpse of our adaptive concepts of cosmology and fairness. Yeah, man. You’re so fucking deep. You should write this shit down.

Still, even with a useless degree, you’ve got the skills to make your way through most things.

It’s not vanity to say you can learn anything put in front of you. Your skills with robotics aside, you’re an accomplished coder, a hacker on par even with your talented cousin Roxy, and a well-honed fighter (the result of twelve years of ridiculously Spartan games of violent chicken with your brother which had eventually turned into full-on sword fights on the roof that lasted, at their worst, several hours). 

You stop yourself from waxing poetic about your past because even you (or perhaps expecially you) recognize when your self-aggrandizing can get out of hand.

You’re not sure what compels you to stay with Dave, to actively avoid seeking gainful employment in favor of depending on your older brother’s royalties.

No. Fuck that. You know yourself better than that, and you know damn well what stops you.

You’ve even addressed it with Dave. Shadow conversations from previous years flick across your mind momentarily. _“Wanna reenact_ Ghost _with me? I’ll be the clay pot.”_ The look he’d given you then had told you that never in a million years would he take the bait you’d lain before him, never take the apple or eat the olive or whatever old mythical comparisons there are out there to correspond to the concept of “forbidden fruit”.

You wonder briefly if his resistance of you is really based in his aversion to you personally, or if it’s the result of some horribly misguided attempt to be a responsible guardian. You think you’d like to have a conversation with him about taking responsibility for the children he helps to create. _“This boner’s half yours, dude. I’m gonna need some child support, stat. Kid’s gotta eat.”_

You roll onto one side and take a deep breath. Your tiny bed squeaks under you, the sheets a garish, too-childish clutter of pool balls, and covered orange puppet ass.

Your inner voice takes on a lot of Dave’s mannerisms nowadays. You act more like him than you ever used to as a child, back when you were actively trying to be like the “cooler” Strider. You think he tries to ignore it, now that he knows—in vivid detail—how badly you’d like to be inside him. He’s fully aware of how much you emulate him, sometimes even more than you are. It scares you.

You inner monologues have managed to achieve that unique quality of disjointed and aimless ranting that only Dave can truly employ with finesse. It’s like having him inside your head, and it would bother you if it didn’t also give you a sick sense of aroused satisfaction with yourself.

He’s a good guy, a fact that makes you mildly sick. He still treats you the same as always, never makes you feel like scum for your feelings. Never brings them up. 

You’d punch yourself in the face if you hadn’t long ago accepted that you’re a disgusting excuse for a brother. You can live with it.

You just want that painted fucker in those lame, pricey suits to touch your dick, Jesus fuck.

And maybe tell you he loves you.

You sigh and stand up. You hear the sounds of Dave screwing around in the kitchen. You know he’s starting preparations on a birthday surprise for you. You also know that if you don’t go out and help, he’s going to burn this apartment to the ground.

You should probably let him, because seriously, fuck this place, but you go out anyway.


	2. I know how to fucking bake a cake, now tell me how to manage my feelings.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He notices you watching him and slows, but doesn’t stop. You can see how hard he’s trying to not put on a show for you, so you cut him a break and look away. You wonder if he was looking at you, seeing the simmering lust in your eyes. You exist in a constant state of tense desire to wrap yourself bodily around your older brother and attempt molecular fusion. He probably exists in a constant state of ‘what the fuck, my brother needs to back up off my jock’, you figure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /slips and doesn't edit this.  
> i'm sorry i'm such a poop.
> 
> edit: also, this chapter ends with that rambling shit, but that's dirk reacting. i'm not trying to beat you over the head with the point, but this dirk tends to be melodramatic, so...

“Because you’re doing it wrong.”

“I am not doing it wrong, give me that.” Dave’s hand shoots out to take the empty cake mix box from you and you dance backward.

“When has that ever worked, Bro?” You’ve always been faster. You love reminding him of that.

“One of these days it will, you smug little bastard, now hand it over. I know what I’m doing and I’m gonna make a fantastic fucking cake. Triple tier, buttercream frosting, chocolate fuckin’ everywhere. Smell that, kids? That’s the scent of a man on a mission. A mission for cocoa goodness. I’m gonna have bitches hanging off me over this cake, Dirk. Female dogs all up and down the block. World be like, ‘Shit, look at all those bitches. How the fuck does he even do it?’ Gonna sing my praises because my cake is so goddamn delicious-”

“Oh my God, shut the fuck up. You’re not getting this box. I don’t want to have to pick through the charred remains of what used to be my worldly possessions because Dave Strider couldn’t eat a dick and stop grandstanding.”

He fixes you with a look that you can’t quite discern from behind his shades and you know you’ve wounded his pride a little. You sigh. “Just set the oven temp.”

With an overly casual shrug, he turns the dial to 350, and you lean past him to flick on the heating elements. It’s a two-step process that he only ever remembers one step of. You’re honestly not sure how he hasn’t killed himself in his idiocy yet.

You busy yourself with pouring the brown sludge that would eventually be a cake into a proper bowl. Dave was in the process of mixing the whole thing in your largest measuring cup when you emerged from the bedroom, and had done a predictably poor job of it.

You’re about to pick up the mixer when you feel your brother’s hand on your shoulder.

Dave is leaned against the sink behind you, perpendicular to your position at the counter. You glance back at him, affixing a bored look to your face in stark contrast to the excited tension from even the simplest of touches.

His thick aviators sit where they always do, so you can’t see his eyes, but the way he’s generously angled his head toward you tells you he’s looking.

You half regret leaving your own shades in your bedroom.

“You wanna go out tonight?” he inquires, his voice lower than usual. It’s the gentle tone that never fails to break your heart a little, because every syllable in it carries that magnanimous older brother bullshit you’ve grown to resent and ache for.

“You wanna rephrase the question?” you counter, pushing down your thoughts. “Not that a date wouldn’t be nice, but a lady needs a little warning before you go sweeping her off her feet, y’know.”

He snorts, dropping his hand to cover his face with it. When he looks up at you again, there’s a bit of a smile playing at his lips. He cocks his head and wiggles his nose for a moment before trying again. “Would you like to go to dinner with me for your birthday? I want to feed you something that isn’t your toxic, shitty takeout because I love you and don’t want you to die.”

“Bro, the way of the greasy chow mein is an art. It’s not my fault you don’t understand that.” You snatch up the mixer and blend the gritty batter for a while. Dave doesn’t attempt to continue conversation, the sound of the machine in your hand too high for indoor voices to be heard, and fuck you if he’s gonna shout just to talk to you.

You turn off the device before it can fling chocolate drops all over you, pour the mixture into the waiting pan, and take a scraper to the sides of the bowl to get as much out of it as you can. When you’ve finished, you hand your chocolate covered utensil off to Dave and watch for a moment as his tongue darts out to greedily lick up a small glob that attempts escape.

He notices you watching him and slows, but doesn’t stop. You can see how hard he’s trying to not put on a show for you, so you cut him a break and look away. You wonder if he was looking at you, seeing the simmering lust in your eyes. You exist in a constant state of tense desire to wrap yourself bodily around your older brother and attempt molecular fusion. He probably exists in a constant state of ‘what the fuck, my brother needs to back up off my jock’, you figure.

Once you’ve maneuvered the cake into the heated oven, he’s gotten his scraper rinsed off and is waiting.

“It’s a serious question, you know,” Dave declares. “I’m so down with letting you eat me out of house and home. I want to do something special, Dirk.”

“Ah, there it is. _You_ want to do something special. Is this even about me?” You’re goading him like a dick, you both know it.

He swats you lightly upside the head and pushes himself away from the counter to saunter off to the living room. You watch his ass as he goes and for a moment, just a brief one, you think to yourself that he’s giving you that view intentionally.

You follow him out because you know he expects you to. The two of you fight for control of the couch, ending up on each end with your legs violently mashed together in the middle.

He looks at you and coughs softly before saying, “This actually is about you, kid.” You narrow your eyes. “I have a thing for spoiling you, yeah, but mostly I just want you to be happy and not feel like I hate you or something.”

“Why, Mr. Strider, I had no idea you were such an idiot,” you lilt, your best impression of a southern belle. His head jerks to the side and you think to yourself that, fuck everything, you’ve upset him. “I don’t think you hate me.”

He looks...kind of guilty, honestly. It clicks.

“Oh Christ, you’re going away for a while, aren’t you.” It’s not a question. He knows it’s not.

“I have to. New movie’s coming out this year. I have to make the rounds, go kiss some hands and shake some babies. It won’t be for long.”

“Only a few fucking months.” You stand, frustrated. He doesn’t have to do this. Nobody expects it of him. His persona is such that completely ignoring all the social events tied into being a writer and director of a major (and utterly, intentionally, _incredibly_ shitty) series of films wouldn’t make any waves whatsoever. “Are you doing this shit because you can’t stand to be around me? You’re so disgusted by your little brother’s incestuous urges that you just want to fly out of here at the first chance you get. Fuck you and fuck your dinner. Fuck your cake, too.” You’re out of the room before he can even blink.

You’ve got the door slammed behind you and a room full of silence in front of you. You’re ready to collapse onto your bed when you hear the softest knock from behind you.

“Go away, asshole.” Your voice is stronger and steadier than you thought it’d be, and you count it as a personal victory.

“Dirk. Let me in.”

You scoff. “It’s fine. I don’t want your fucking dinner and you can eat the cake yourself. Don’t worry about me anymore. I’m a grown man, I can deal with it.” You’re getting emotional, but you don’t think it’s coming through in your tone. You’re grateful. He’d probably hate you if he could understand how deeply you feel _everything_.

“Dirk, open the fucking door.”

You’re stubbornly pressed against it. He hasn’t tried to open it himself yet, but if he does, you’re ready.

“Dirk.” The voice you hear is teetering on the edge of dangerous, and for a moment, you’re almost nervous. It’s replaced instantly by an irate bravado.

You laugh openly. “Go the fuck away, Dave.”

You’re not prepared for the sudden pressure of the door against your back. You’re stronger, but he’s got years of experience in getting into rooms you’re trying to keep him out of.

You land on your stomach and jerk your legs out of the way before the door breaks them. He’s in the room with that thin piece of wood closed behind him before you can get up, but once you’re on your feet, the only thing you can bring yourself to say is, “What the _fuck_ , Dave?”

He just shrugs. “Don’t shut me out.”

You’re glaring at him even as you relax your shoulders and adopt that careless stance so natural to any Strider not wanting to give up that he’s an emotional wreck.

“What do you even want?” you spit.

“I’m not disgusted by you, Dirk.”

You frown. You weren’t prepared for that. When your mouth opens to speak, he raises a hand. You silence the words that had been ready to spill out and wait.

“I really do need to do this. Whatever misconceptions you have about the world of film, I once in a while have to get my lazy ass up and go rub elbows if I’m gonna stay in business. This isn’t about you, but I knew you thought it would be. I want to do something nice for you because I know I can be a really shitty brother. I don’t want you to think I’m leaving you here because of,”—he gestures vaguely—, “all this. I love you, kid, and I don’t hold anything against you, but I have to go and I need you to know it’s not your fault. I’ll be back. Hell, I’ll even go the responsible guardian route and actually stay in contact with you.”

You aren’t daring to speak because he hasn’t lowered his hand yet, but you’re starting to feel like an overemotional child. It’s disgusting. You wish he’d just put that fucking hand down so you could interrupt without feeling like a dick.

“Do you understand?” He pushes his sunglasses up onto his head, his hair going with it in a way that would be comical if he wasn’t a Strider and therefore ridiculously attractive. For the first time, you see the raw concern in his eyes. He’s asking for forgiveness with that look. You cave.

“Yeah. Fine. Whatever. You’re right, I guess. But don’t fucking barge into my room, you wrinkly cock.”

He cracks a smile at that, a genuine grin that lights up his face in a way only you can accomplish. You’d walk on rusty nails for that smile.

“So where do you want to take me tonight? I’m not buying that ‘it’s your choice’ crap.” You gesture for him to move and he turns around. You push him toward the living room, your hands on the soft fabric of his gaudy suit. You can feel the tight muscle underneath it and it makes you want to wiggle your fingers.

After a moment, you realize he’s been talking, so you tune back into reality to catch the tail end of what was probably a short but lofty rant about how great he is. “You’ve gotta trust me, man. We’ve gotta sail this boat of trust across a sea of brotherly affection. Can’t do it without you, bro. Only one set of oars, but someone’s gotta navigate.”

You shove him hard and he curls over the back of the couch, pulling himself fully over when you leave him pinned there in front of you. You’re not quite pressed against him, but you’d like to be.

He’s so damn good at avoiding opportunities for you to feel him up, it’s annoying as shit.

He’s lying on the couch staring up at you, his sunglasses still pushed up. He has one hand behind his head, the other resting on his stomach, and you want _so badly_ to kiss him. You mutter a quiet “yolo” and lean forward, brushing your lips across his. It’s not really a kiss, not by your definition, but he’s gone still under you and you figure you’ve at least managed to traumatize him enough to last a while.

You nurse the guilt and revulsion pooling in your stomach as you pull your face back, and you see his expression. It’s absolutely blank, the look in his eyes—those red eyes, contrasting your orange, and trained hard on you—more observant than anything else. When you stand straight, you shrug. “Let’s call that a sign of brotherly affection.”

“Bullshit,” he says, so quiet you wonder if you were even meant to hear it.

“You gonna pick a damn place already? I’m going to check the cake,” you start toward the kitchen.

“Holy shit, Dirk, it’s been literally twelve minutes, get back here.”

“Nope.” You abscond before he can throw himself off the couch. Glancing at the clock, you realize he’s right and that it’s been exactly twelve minutes and forty two seconds now. It annoys you that he’s so spot on with his timing. “How the fuck does he _do_ that?”

“I pay attention. I also pay all the bills, so don’t fucking walk away from me, kid.” His voice comes from a few feet behind you, but you ignore him. You’re not gonna face him, not right now. Partially because it pisses him off, and partially because you don’t want another speech about how much you don’t disgust him when you’re already too disgusted with yourself to be alive right now.

Somehow you’re still breathing, but it feels like you couldn’t possibly be.

He slaps the back of your head and you bite out a “fuck” before ducking out of the way of a second hit.

He’s _laughing_ , you realize, and you turn to glare at him, grabbing the nearest blunt object—a rolling pin—and bracing yourself. “I’m not gonna fight you, Dirk. Focus, though.”

You’re still scowling at him, but you lower the roller slightly and adopt a more relaxed stance. You’re ready if he swings for you, but you get the feeling he won’t. Still, you’re Striders, and it’s not in your blood to pass up the opportunity for a cheap shot here and there.

“Do you really want me?”

The question is quiet, earnest, and it throws you off. Your head snaps up so swiftly that you bang it against the cupboard behind your head. You don’t even flinch.

“What,” you say, not a question but a command. It’s too loud an utterance for the expectant silence of the kitchen. You do flinch at the way it shatters the atmosphere.

“You heard me, Dirk.” It’s measured. His face is even, revealing nothing.

You roll your eyes, because it’s all you can do, and say, “I think we’ve passed the point where that’s a reasonable question, Dave.”

“You willing to risk it?”

You raise an eyebrow at that. Risk what? Risk being with someone you’re close to and running the chance of having it fall apart? The corner of your mouth pulls down as you think on that.

“I mean are you willing to risk all of this, our entire livelihood, on an old man?” He looks so miserable suddenly.

“Dude, you’re not old,” you say. You’re one sippy cup full of orange soda away from wrapping your arms around him and telling him all the nice things he needs to hear about himself.

“But I am, Dirk. I’m thirty. I’ve got eleven years on you and I’m not getting younger. And I practically raised you from sixteen onward. I’ve been an old man for a long ass time, kid, and I know you think you’re this ancient sage in a young man’s body but you’re just a kid. You have so much that you’re gonna do. You’re great, you’re talented, you’re so fucking smart it blows me away. I don’t want you to want me. I’m not worth it. I’m really not. But I’m not going to pretend that this fucked up family disharmony is on you. I’m so much worse. I’m not acting on some hero worship crush bullshit. I’m yearning after the kid I raised.”

Some voice in the back of your mind shouts “score” even as you swell with pity and shame. How could he think this was his fault? He wants you back. It’s not his fault. He wants you back. He’s not a bad guy. He wants you back.

“First off, fuck you and your hero worship trash. Secondly, what.” He looks at you like you’re an idiot, and you most definitely are, but you’re waiting for some explanation.

“I’m making you an offer, you little shit. Nothing about this is okay, but I’m selfish and you’re selfish and we’re incredibly fucked up. I’m not willing to keep up the ruse that I don’t want this. I just don’t want—”

His voice breaks and you see his face crumple for just a moment before he’s breathing evenly and looking at you with that very Dave expression of calculated amusement and sincere affection.

“I just don’t want to hurt you.”

That’s it. All illusions of manly pride aside, you’ve got him bundled up in your arms. He’s shivering. He’s not a small man, but he’s narrower than you are. For once, you feel older, stronger, more stable. You feel like the one responsible for him.

“Dave. I do want you. I don’t even care if this is wrong. I really don’t give a shit. I want you.” You’re cooing the words at him as he wraps his arms around your waist, and you feel him calm under your touch.

Before you realize what’s happening, he lifts you and presses you against the counter, your ass just barely over the rim of it. One of his hands runs down your thigh and pulls it up around his hip, his other hand dipping just slightly under the fabric of your shirt, and then he’s kissing you.

You gasp. You feel the brush of his fingertips through the patch of hair on your lower stomach and you tangle your fingers in his hair to pull him closer. The kiss is hard, all teeth and lips and desperate breaths. When he opens his mouth, your tongue flies in. You can feel it collide with his, feel both of them struggle for dominance in the tiny space, and then he’s giving in.

You don’t think anything’s ever been sweeter to you than feeling Dave submit to you.

All too soon, he’s breaking away, wiping his mouth lightly with his long, delicate fingers, and turning to leave the kitchen. You pant out a rough, “Where the hell are you going?” You’re frustrated. You weren’t done.

“Got shit to do, Dirk. Keep an eye on the cake. I’m gonna go make a reservation.” He’s gone and you stand there, the budding hardness in your jeans wilting before its time.

“Fuck you,” you say to no one. You watch the rising brown matter in the oven for a moment, feeling yourself clench up in agony as you hear the familiar sounds of retching. _He’s vomiting. He’s vomiting because he’s horrified. He’s vomiting because this repulses him. Oh my God._

You slide into a sitting position on the kitchen floor and stare at the cake. You don’t think you’re going to want it after all.


	3. The stalls are clean enough, but does that really justify bathroom naughties? Honestly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The louche sway of his hips as he moves through the restaurant drives you up a wall. He knows it, can feel your eyes on him as he walks toward the distant men’s room. He burns brighter than anyone else in the room. You suspect he’ll always have that quality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had this half-written for a couple weeks. i'm such an ass, gomen.
> 
> also, once again, i'm a butt who didn't edit. if you see any really notable mistakes, i'm sorry.  
> this will eventually be porn, i promise. real, honest-to-god porn.
> 
> as it stands, have some clumsy bathroom touching.

This restaurant is far too upscale for your taste, but it suits his need to be in the spotlight. You’ve been at the table for over an hour, the two of you discussing his films and various lifestyle minutiae. He carefully managed to avoid talking about his upcoming departure but it hangs heavy in the air between you.

He’s barely touched his steak, one which took far too long to arrive and which has cooled to the point of nigh inedibility. You think. You’re more a lobster kind of man, so you don’t have much of a frame of reference there.

He cuts a piece off and offers it to you, his fork dangling over your plate with an implied “scrape it off, punk” that you ignore. You press a finger to the underside of his fork and raise it until it’s at lip height before leaning in.

Through your shades, you track the increasing tension in his jaw as you wrap your tongue around the meat and pull it leisurely off the silver prongs. You let out a soft and appreciative moan, chewing very slowly. When you’ve swallowed, you lower your hand and watch him do likewise. For a moment, there’s silence, and what could be pleasant tension in some lighting.

He stands then, each motion deliberate and calculatedly easy. You smirk.

“Gotta take a leak,” he says, when you angle your head upward at him.

“Charming.”

“They don’t pay me to be charming,” he replies, pushing his chair in.

“They don’t pay you to do anything. I’m blown away that we can somehow afford tap water with the shit you put out. How do you actually make an income?”

“I perform sexual favors for the Geromy cosplayers. It’s a living.”

You picture that as he departs, your lips curling up as you indulge a private laugh. Your public persona is the somehow-even-more-controlled younger Strider. He told you once that being a mystery to the media would do a lot for you in the outside world. You suppose he has a point, as you haven’t been attacked yet. It’s had an interesting effect on your personal interactions, though. You’ve gotten a little too talented at maintaining the phlegmatic silence. It’s almost disgusting.

You push away the self-deprecation busy yourself with watching your brother.

The louche sway of his hips as he moves through the restaurant drives you up a wall. He knows it, can feel your eyes on him as he walks toward the distant men’s room. He burns brighter than anyone else in the room. You suspect he’ll always have that quality.

Once he disappears behind the door, you wait in the muted din of the restaurant. You wait and wait. After almost ten minutes have passed, you finally catch on, and you feel like you could slap yourself. You quickly rise from the table and carve a frustrated path to the bathroom. When you enter, you find yourself alone with only one other person.

“About time.” He’s leaning against the row of sinks, an annoyed smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“A bathroom? Really? This is low even for you.” But you’re moving across the small space to grab him roughly by the tie and pull him into a stall. Before long, you have him pressed against one wall of the minute space. Both sets of sunglasses clatter gracelessly on the floor as you move, your body hard against his—your tongues doing battle. He rakes a hand through your hair and you curse softly, pissed off. You’re going to have to fix your do before you go back out. Dave’s a cunt.

Breaking away from the kiss, he steers your head downward and you hone in on his neck. Your fingers tug urgently at his tie until it’s loose enough for you to maneuver his collar out of the way, your lips making contact with the flesh at his throat. Your kisses are light, though, sans teeth. You’re sexually frustrated, but you’re not an idiot. Sending him back into a crowded space with new hickies isn’t really your goal.

You’ve gotten a rhythm of massaging and licking down when you hear him groan and finally whisper, “Yeah, you’re right, this is hella low. But y’know, I could get lower.”

You laugh against his throat, a hot puff of breath that elicits a shudder from him. “That’s pretty lewd, bro. Where’s all that guilt and worry now?”

There’s a moment of “oh fuck” in your head before he’s pushing you back and readjusting his shirt.

“God damn it,” you bite out. “I didn’t mean that.”

He levels a look at you as if to say, _“Yes, actually, you did.”_

“Dave, come on. I’m sorry. You want this, don’t you? I do, too. Let’s not stop now.” You’re begging. You don’t give a shit.

He blinks at you evenly, his mouth a hard line. You wonder if he’s gonna bend down, take his shades, and bounce the fuck out of here, but instead he drops his hands.

“Just don’t talk anymore, okay? Don’t fucking talk and we’ll be fine.” He jerks his chin upward invitingly and you’re on him in a minute, your fingers roaming over his sides, his chest, his back—anything you can touch and use to pull him closer.

You wonder if he knows that you’ve never had sex with another human being.

You wonder if you’re actually turning him on at all.

When your fingers brush over a nipple and you hear his breath hitch, you smile. He drops a hand on yours as you start unbuttoning his shirt and you glance at him, confusion evident in your expression.

He just shakes his head. “Can’t do that here. I don’t really want us to get _caught_ , so let’s not strip and make it harder to leave.”

You nod. You slip a hand down the front of his nice black pants—ones you’d happily stain white if you didn’t think he’d kick your ass—and squeeze him through his briefs. You’re disappointed; he’s not even a little bit hard. You lean up and drive a kiss into his mouth.

He’s the strangest combination of hard and soft and you just want to take him, make him yours, drown him in you.

Your hand wraps around his flaccid cock, still caged within those midnight black slacks and his underwear.

You stroke it awkwardly for a moment. The dry friction makes you ultimately give up on your clumsy handjob, but a Strider doesn’t fail this kind of shit.

Without hesitation, you drop to your knees. You half expect him to stop you as you unzip him fully and massage his dick behind the fabric of his briefs. (They’re a god awful shade of red. You make a mental note to replace every pair he owns with something less offensive.) It’s stiffening a little, enough to make you feel less shitty about every step leading up to this point, but you’ve got a ways to go.

You wonder if your waitress thinks you’ve left.

When you slip his briefs aside, you’re met with the beautiful sight of his dick. It’s not very big, but it’s pretty and solid in your hand, so you press your tongue reverently to the base and lick slowly upward, looking up at Dave as you do so.

You can’t decipher the quiet look in those cherry eyes. You hope he’s enjoying this.

“Don’t drag it out, kid. This is nice but we’re on a schedule here.”

“Fhuck you,” you slur quietly up to him, your tongue still tracing along the underside of his cock. You understand his urgency, however, so you wrap your lips around the pink head and suck once, twice, before swallowing him down as far as you can.

Which turns out to be all the way. You’re grateful for the time you invested in designing machines to pleasure yourself with. One of them is meant to simulate giving oral. It’s one you use often.

For the first time, Dave actually moans. You suck hard and pull back, your hand moving up to grip the space your mouth has vacated and jerk slowly along the moist length of him. You alternate between circular stroking and deep sucking. You doubt you’re doing very well, but Dave seems to enjoy it.

You think he’s probably psyching himself up to make this go faster, because it only takes you a few minutes to get him off.

He grips your hair to jerk you back right before he cums, but you’re not keen on washing jizz out of your outfit, so you force your way forward and wrap your lips around the tip right as he shoots.

It’s salty and strangely textured as it enters your mouth. Your immediate impulse is to spit it out, but when you look up, you see such a blissed-out look on your brother’s face that you wait.

You wait until he’s done gritting his teeth and panting, until his grip on your hair has loosened and he’s slowly tucking himself away.

When you turn and spit into the toilet, you hear him snort.

“You really know how to make a lady feel special, don’t you?”

You roll your eyes at him and stand, grabbing both sets of shades as you go.

Your dick is pushing uncomfortably against your pants. He looks at it, hand reaching out to touch it through the hard barrier of your clothing. Your hips are leaning into the pressure without your permission, but you can’t bring yourself to mind.

A hard pounding on the door jerks you two out of the moment.

“What the hell?” You hear it again and glance at Dave, who just shrugs.

“Locked it for privacy.”

“You _locked_ it? When the fuck did you find the time to lock it?”

One more set of rapid hits to the door and you shove Dave out of the stall before locking yourself in and standing on the seat. He slips out, no doubt smiling at a very irritated man, and you hide yourself as he does his business over by the urinals.

You’re still painfully hard. You grip your cock through your pants and stroke it quietly. The stranger in the room finishes up and leaves. You find yourself momentarily disgusted that he didn’t wash his hands, but you’re getting lost in sensation.

The sharp noise of the Sailor Moon theme song beckons you to answer your phone, so you do. Dave tells you to hurry the fuck up and join him, he’s outside, the car’s waiting, blah blah blah.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, hop down to the floor, and make your way out of the bathroom and through the front door. The attendant waiting nearby shoots you an uncomfortable smile.

You’re very visibly aroused. You don’t give a damn.

You climb into the car when Dave pulls it around and immediately your hand falls to the front of your pants, pressing down but not stroking. You just need some kind of pressure. Sucking Dave off was really hot.

Too hot.

When your brother reaches over to slap your hand away, you weigh the pros and cons of punching him in the face in a 45mph zone.

“I’ll take care of you when we get home, you little fuck. Don’t insult me.”

“I swear by all that is holy. If you don’t speed the hell up, I’m going to jerk off onto your upholstery, fuckstick.”

“Cum-laden black convertible. Can we not?”

“Drive faster.”

“I’m ten over, Dirk. I’m not gonna get a fucking ticket because junior’s got a boner.”

“How can you even stomach saying shit like that?”

“I can’t.”

“So you’re just weighed down by all this self-disgusted misery and guilt, which you’re cleverly disguising via egregious use of sarcasm.”

“Essentially.”

“Are you being serious? I was just kidding.”

He doesn’t respond. You huff. Your erection is slowly dying. You find yourself wanting to go home and sleep more than anything.

When Dave pulls into the parking lot, you’re the first one out. You shoot him a quiet “thanks for the food” and disappear into the building. This piece of shit apartment doesn’t sound so bad anymore.

Not when your bedroom door is going to be the only thing between you and Dave and all his feelings.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at reduxcorrelator.tumblr.com. if you have any concerns, critiques, questions, or requests, please feel free to leave a comment on the work or send me a message at my blog. feedback is very much appreciated.


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